


For Duty and For Loyalty

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, tw: corporal punishment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:52:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On board the HMS Loyalty, First Lieutenant Enjolras and his fellow officers and shipmates struggle under a captain whose command grows ever more unjust. Uneasiness spreads, from the young midshipmen Prouvaire and Feuilly to the gunner Bahorel, and an uneasy ship is never one that is smoothly controlled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are two ways to gain respect in the Navy. The first is to demand it by virtue of one’s position. The second is to earn it, whether or not one’s position would demand it. Young Captain Colbert, recently commissioned on the newly-outfitted _HMS Loyalty_ , belonged—one might say unfortunately—to the first school. His young lieutenants, on the other hand, subscribed to the second, and though they did not purpose to give their captain difficulty, he felt himself threatened by officers so familiar with the men, so attuned to their needs.

The _Loyalty_ was divided before the day she set sail from Portsmouth.

——

Acting Lieutenant Courfeyrac, having taken a night watch, was sleeping when the whistles blew and the call came for all hands. He threw on his uniform with as much precision as he could manage and scurried topside, where he found grave faces. Taking his place between Combeferre, the second lieutenant, and Midshipman Berland, he turned to Combeferre and whispered, “What is it?”

“It’s Bahorel, the gunner,” Combeferre murmured back. “He was found to have started a fight with one of the men most loyal to the captain.”

Courfeyrac felt himself go pale. “Sir, is he—”

“They’re bringing him out for a flogging now.” Combeferre’s face was tight with disapproval.

Courfeyrac tugged unhappily at the tip of his bicorn. “He’s in my division, sir. They should have told me before—”

But there was no more time to talk. Bahorel, stripped to the waist but not shivering despite the wind, was being led out. He offered Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras the barest nod as he passed them on his way to the gratings.

Courfeyrac had been six years in the navy by now, and he had seen his fair share of floggings. Still, only discipline and the knowledge that his men were watching kept him from giving way to a shudder as Bahorel was tied up. Midshipmen Prouvaire and Feuilly, for both of whom this was merely the second voyage and the very first flogging, looked pale, but they were both facing resolutely forwards.

“Ship’s company, attention!”

They all snapped into position, and the sailors on each side of Bahorel took up the cats laid by for them. Courfeyrac realized that he did not know how many lashes Bahorel had been condemned to…how long he (and they) would have to endure.

The bosun was about to signal the drums, but Captain Colbert held up a hand and stepped to the edge of the poop deck to address the men.

“Fighting,” he said, “will not be tolerated. A first offense will be punished by flogging. A second offense will be treated as rendering oneself unfit for service, for which the consequences are greater. I will have order on this ship.”

He stepped back. The drums began, and so did the lashes. Bahorel bore them on his solid shoulders, and Courfeyrac bore them on a recoiling heart which insisted that there must have been more to the story than Bahorel’s love of a fight and the captain’s love of order. He listened to the count and waited for the end.

——

“Hold still, you big lout,” muttered Dr. Joly in affectionate frustration as his steady hands worked over Bahorel’s back. “With all your troublemaking, you can’t tell me you’ve never had this before.”

“Actually…” grunted Bahorel, before squirming away from Joly’s cloth, “nothing more than a bit of the rope’s end.” He let out a string of creative curses, befitting to his profession. He had borne the flogging in near-silence, but was proving much less stoic about having the lashes cleaned. “No, not there—”

“Have to, sorry,” said Joly briskly. “And before you say anything, I am being gentle; I am practically using a mother’s touch and I am being far kinder to you than I am to Lesgle when he gives himself slivers—”

He was interrupted by a knock at the sickbay door. Wringing out his bloodied cloth and dampening it again, he called out, “What is it?”

“It’s Combeferre,” was the reply. “Midshipman Prouvaire needs to lie down a bit; would it be an imposition to bring him in?”

“Not at all, sir,” Joly said, and Combeferre pushed open the door, twelve-year-old Prouvaire trailing behind him. Combeferre led him over to one of the hammocks.

“What is the matter, Mister Prouvaire?” Joly asked, ignoring another bout of cursing from Bahorel. Prouvaire glanced over at the table where Bahorel lay, his damaged back displayed, and swallowed.

“I just…my stomach took a turn, sir,” he said. “Lieutenant Combeferre said I could come down here until I felt better.”

“Of course,” said Joly. “Now lie down, lad, so you’ll recover quicker, hmm?”

“Yes sir,” Prouvaire agreed, and clambered carefully into a hammock.

——

Combeferre stood close to the pale, sweating boy, resisting the urge to brush his untidy hair from his face. “Will you be all right in here, Mister Prouvaire?” he asked. “The doctor working won’t disturb you?”

Prouvaire sent another glance towards Bahorel. “I—I don’t think so, sir. I can manage.”

“Very well,” Combeferre said. He sighed, and went on in a low voice. “It is very hard to watch the first time, I know. When I was midshipman I had nightmares for weeks over a flogging, even though the man was a thief. –I must return to my duties now, but if you wish to discuss this when we are both off watch or on watch together with little to be done, come to me. Will you do that?”

“Yes sir,” said Prouvaire, and as Bahorel groaned again he closed his eyes.

“Good lad,” said Combeferre. “Now, rest, and report to me when you are recovered.” And he clapped Prouvaire encouragingly on the shoulder, gave his thanks to Joly for his dedicated service, and left the sickbay.

——

Combeferre and Enjolras had the luxury of going to bed at the same time that evening, Courfeyrac having been assigned the night watch again. With the door to their quarters closed, they began to talk quietly as they got out of their uniforms.

“Have you heard the full story of what happened with Bahorel?” Enjolras asked. “If discouraging fighting among the crew is the captain’s sole purpose in this, both participants should have been punished.”

Combeferre folded his coat and laid it in his sea-chest. “He was fighting with Martin,” he replied, “who is—I have heard from many of my most reliable men—overfond of reporting belowdecks activities directly to the captain, or to Midshipman Berland, who rewards him for it with grog.”

Enjolras’ brow creased as he removed his boots. “So he is a petty informer.”

“Yes, and has been suspected of falsifying information as well.”

“From Courfeyrac’s reports of Bahorel, it makes sense that they would fight.”

“Yes.”

Neither spoke their thought, that the captain had little enough interest in preventing fights and wanted primarily to ensure that no one would interfere with his informer; they did not need to speak it. A glance sufficed as they got out of their waistcoats and folded them into their sea-chests.

“And young Prouvaire?” Enjolras asked. “How is he?”

“He recovered,” Combeferre said. “At least, his stomach did—I am sure that his mind still dwells on the images. I offered to speak with him on the matter if he wished. –Midshipman Feuilly looked disturbed as well, I thought.”

“I thought the same,” Enjolras said. “I will speak to him tomorrow; I believe we are on watch together.”

“Thank you…goodnight, Enjolras.”

“Goodnight, Combeferre.”

They extinguished the lantern, got into their hammocks, and lay in comfortable silence until they fell asleep.

——

Enjolras walked the deck in the bright midmorning sunlight, overseeing the work that was being done and giving orders as needed. “Clear away those ropes, Burton, before someone trips on them—Granville, get for’rard there and lend a hand—Richards! Put away that flask.”

When he looked over the deck and found all running smoothly, he crossed to young Midshipman Feuilly, who was sitting on a coil of rope near the ship’s wheel, hunched over a small book in which he was scribbling away with a pencil. When Feuilly caught sight of Enjolras, he stood hurriedly, dropping his quadrant and other navigational tools on the deck and barely catching his small spyglass. He shifted the spyglass into the same hand as the book so he could salute.

“Sir,” he said.

“At your ease, midshipman,” Enjolras told him with a smile, bending down to pick up the dropped tools. He indicated for them to sit down together. “How have you been occupying yourself?”

Feuilly showed him the notebook. “It’s my navigational log, sir, which Lieutenant Combeferre told me to keep for practicing.”

Enjolras held out his hand for it, and Feuilly passed it to him a little nervously. But Enjolras nodded as he flipped through the pages. “This is very well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Feuilly, brightening at once.

“It is simply the truth,” Enjolras said. “You are doing well at your studies. Do you enjoy being at sea?”

“Yes sir,” said Feuilly dutifully. “I’m grateful my uncle’s cousin set it all up for me so I could be midshipman on the _Scarlet_ and now here on the _Loyalty_.”

“So am I,” Enjolras told him gravely. “You are a fine addition to this crew, and you will go far, I am sure. They say that to advance well in the navy, a man has to have a lord for his father, with money and connections in London, but you must not listen to them, Feuilly. You are an able lad with the makings of a very fine officer. Captain Colbert’s wealthy relations may have made it easier for him to receive a command at a young age, but there is no reason you should not do so as well.”

Feuilly took this in with hungry eyes. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered.

Enjolras smiled. “You’re welcome, Mister Feuilly. Now, is there anything that troubles you on this ship? I would like you to speak honestly, mind.” He took up two short lengths of rope from beside the coil, handing one to Feuilly and keeping one himself so they could practice their knots as they talked.

Feuilly tied and untied a square knot three times over, without looking and without thinking, as he hesitated. “Well sir,” he said, staring down at the rope, “I—there is something I don’t understand. But I don’t know if it’d be right to ask about it.”

“I trust you,” Enjolras told him, “so I give you my word that I will not punish you for anything you say.”

Feuilly bit his lip, mindlessly tied a sheet bend, and finally blurted out in a whisper, “I don’t know why one man should get a flogging for fighting and the man he was fighting with shouldn’t. Fighting takes two, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras. “It takes two.”

“So it doesn’t make sense,” Feuilly said.

“No,” said Enjolras. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Feuilly looked up at him, then took a deep breath and nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“You’re welcome, Mister Feuilly.” Enjolras got up. “Now, if you’ll go below decks for me with a message for Lieutenant Combeferre…”

——

When Feuilly reported to Enjolras again, he delivered Combeferre’s return message and Enjolras dismissed him back to his studies. But Feuilly shook his head.

“If you please, sir,” he said, “I’ve a message from the captain. He requests that you join him to dine this evening, along with Lieutenant Combeferre and Acting Lieutenant Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras’ brow creased, but he inclined his head. “My respects to the captain, and I will attend him,” he answered. “Spread the word to the others, midshipman.”


	2. Chapter 2

“As you may have heard,” said Captain Colbert, “we are headed for the West Indies. The army troops we carry onboard are destined to replenish the garrison at Gros Islet, St. Lucia, to sustain the fight against the French who seek to control the island. More wine, sir?” He held out the bottle to Courfeyrac.

“Thank you, sir,” Courfeyrac replied, accepting half a glass.

“The sugar plantations there,” the captain continued, “will be of great value to the British economy. We must have them, no matter the cost.”

Enjolras felt Combeferre stiffen beside him. Combeferre, who stowed in his sea-chest a medallion reading “Am I not a man and a brother?” had always feared being deployed to the West Indies. There were rumors that the French Revolutionary government was preparing to abolish slavery even in its colonies, and Combeferre had secretly confided to Enjolras feelings on the matter which might be interpreted as treasonous were they aired in the open.

“If we acquire the island, we acquire not only the land and crops but also the labor.” Captain Colbert looked up from his meal, his sharp eyes landing on Combeferre. “Do you not agree, lieutenant, that this would be an irreplaceable advantage to the Crown?”

Combeferre’s hand shook a little as he reached for his glass. As he drank, the silence was heavy. “I am hardly an expert on matters of economics, Captain,” he deferred at last, “though it does seem natural that Britain’s expansion should profit her trade.”

The captain snorted delicately, smoothing his fine hair from his tanned face. “You ought to be a diplomat rather than a sailor, lieutenant. But come, let us have a toast. To the defeat of the French in Saint Lucia, and secure British possession of the island’s resources.”

Combeferre, his lips tight once more, hesitated. Enjolras gave him a quiet look, then picked up his glass to echo, “To the defeat of the French.”

Relieved by Enjolras’ deft use of the habit of shortening a toast, Combeferre managed to join, and all four of them drank.

Captain Colbert smiled at them, but Enjolras did not trust the expression. And indeed, it was followed by another topic which none of them wished to discuss.

“I have certain concerns regarding your discipline of the midshipmen.”

They risked small glances at one another, then Enjolras spoke. “What concerns, sir?”

“A number of them.” He reached for a sheet of paper. “Lieutenant Combeferre. Twelve days ago, just after we set sail from Portsmouth, you were on watch with Midshipman Grantaire when you found him drunk. You deprived him of his grog ration for a week.”

“Yes sir,” said Combeferre.

“He ought to have also gone on watch and watch, twenty-four hours at the very least, to make up for his inferior service.”

Combeferre’s brow furrowed. “There is nothing in the Articles of War, sir, nor in the bylaws, which directly specifies the punishment, and as he was not officer of the watch—”

Captain Colbert leaned forward in his seat. “You knew it was a lenient punishment?”

“I—yes, sir.” Enjolras saw the _but_ in Combeferre’s face, but it went unvoiced.

“I do not tolerate leniency, Lieutenant Combeferre. Next time Midshipman Grantaire is drunk while on duty you will report him to me.”

“Yes sir.” There was nothing else to say.

The captain consulted his list again, and turned to Courfeyrac. “Ten days ago, you found Midshipman Prouvaire idling when he had been sent on a task.”

“Yes sir.”

“What did you do?”

“Ordered him to complete it, then sent him up to the masthead for two hours.”

“He ought to have been reporting to the officer of the watch every hour, day and night, to teach him to be attentive. Again, leniency. A ship cannot be run except on discipline, gentlemen, and strict discipline at that. Lieutenant Combeferre, again, you merely assigned extra navigation exercises when you found that Midshipman Prouvaire had not managed to complete his. Were the boy in school, he would have been beaten.”

At that, Combeferre spoke up. “The issue was merely that he had not completed them on time, sir. He had been diligently attempting, and once I explained the material over he understood. It was not an issue of laziness but of misunderstanding, through my poor teaching, and therefore assigning extra exercises was effective in ensuring that he would continue to—”

The captain interrupted. “Did Midshipman Feuilly understand the concepts from your first explanation?”

“Midshipman Feuilly,” Combeferre said stiffly, “is exceptionally quick at navigation.”

“You are making excuses, sir!” exclaimed Captain Colbert. “The boy performed poorly. You are an officer in order to maintain discipline, not to tutor like some damn educated servant. Do you understand, lieutenant?”

There was nothing to say but “yes, sir,” and so Combeferre said it.

“Lieutenant Enjolras.”

Ah, thought Enjolras, so he does come to me. And last, because I am the first lieutenant and ought to be the closest to his wishes.

And the captain listed off his offenses. He had overlooked Midshipman Feuilly’s improper coiling of several ropes belowdecks. He had reprimanded but not disciplined Midshipman Grantaire’s impudent speech. He had not reprimanded Midshipman Feuilly’s constant, unnecessary, and presumptuous questions. He was to use much greater severity in future.

“I will endeavor to bring the ship up to standard, sir,” Enjolras said.

The three of them looked at each other and hoped that the captain would dismiss them as soon as possible.

——

Since Midshipman Berland had acted as officer of the watch while they had dined with the captain, they seized a few extra minutes to talk in their quarters. Courfeyrac was red-faced.

“As if he really thinks Combeferre would order Prouvaire beaten over a navigation problem,” he exploded, although in a whisper. “You won’t do anything of the sort, will you?”

“I might have to,” Combeferre said. He, unlike Courfeyrac, was pale and looked almost sick. “If we make him angry, this ship will be far more difficult to run—even to live on. But do not think for a second that I will like to do it. And those comments about the West Indies, too…referring to human beings as resources! My God, I could hardly keep quiet.”

“I admire your composure,” Enjolras said quietly, laying a hand on Combeferre’s arm. “But whether we wish to or not, we must make our discipline stricter from now on, less the captain impose a truly severe regimen. Can we agree on that?”

They nodded their heads grimly, and then Combeferre went on deck, as he was on duty for the first watch.

——

“Prouvaire!”

He looked up abruptly at the sound of his name and realization crashed over him. The sandglass had run out, and he had no idea how long ago.

As midshipman of the watch, he was supposed to be testing the half-hour sandglass against a one-minute one to ensure that they measured up. He had started at five bells of the night watch and it was supposed to take him almost exactly until six bells, depending on how quick he was at flipping the one-minute glass.

But he had started looking at the stars, how bright and cold they were in the clear night air and yet how small and soft, and thinking of how coldness and softness did not have to be far from one another—and the sandglass had run out.

Lieutenant Combeferre was approaching. He stood up hurriedly, realizing that the project would have to be started all over again once six bells struck. He had ruined it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said miserably. “I—I should have paid attention.” He thought that perhaps—just perhaps—Lieutenant Combeferre would understand about the stars and how they drew him in, but it was cowardly to offer excuses.

Lieutenant Combeferre looked at him sadly, and Prouvaire could not tell if he was disappointed in the failure or if there was something else troubling him.

“The captain himself has remarked that you must learn not to allow yourself to be distracted when you should be attentive, Prouvaire,” Lieutenant Combeferre said, and his voice was decidedly weary. “I am obliged to punish you.”

Prouvaire hung his head. “I have to do it over, I know.”

“Yes,” said Lieutenant Combeferre, “but that is merely so that the task will be completed. The captain demands that you learn to be attentive.” And he took a deep breath, his voice becoming more detached. “Prouvaire, you will report to the officer of the watch every hour for the next twenty-four and until further notice, fully dressed in uniform.”

Prouvaire swallowed hard, and felt tears prickling at his eyes. Not because it would be hard—although it would be hard, he was very sure of that—but because Lieutenant Combeferre, who was always so kind, felt a need to punish him.

He blinked back his tears and saluted. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, though his voice was not steady at all.

Lieutenant Combeferre inclined his head. “That’ll mean you report to me at six bells,” he said, “and then you can check the sandglasses.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Prouvaire said again. At least, he thought, he could look at the stars until six bells was rung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nautical time runs on watches and bells. The first watch, mentioned here, is 8 p.m. to midnight. Bells tell the time every half hour, starting at the beginning of each four-hour watch. So, five bells on the first watch would be 10:30 p.m. and six bells on the first watch would be 11 p.m., etc.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (TW for a scene portraying corporal punishment.)

“What’s wrong?” Feuilly asked of Prouvaire, as they sat at breakfast in the midshipman’s mess. Berland, the senior midshipman, was on watch and would be dining late, so they felt free to talk.

Prouvaire glanced over at Grantaire, but he was apparently hungover and paying them no mind. “I’m being punished for not minding the sandglasses as I was ordered,” he admitted, blushing. “Reporting to the officer of the watch every hour, at least all day but until further orders. I was so afraid I’d not hear the bell and miss one that I didn’t sleep very much after I got off watch.”

Feuilly grimaced. “Hard luck,” he said. “You must be really tired.”

Prouvaire shrugged bravely. “Not so very tired,” he said, although his pale face showed otherwise. “But I don’t have this coming watch either…Feuilly, can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” said Feuilly.

“If you’re not on watch either, will you—will you make sure I wake when I’m supposed to?”

Feuilly’s face fell. “I have the forenoon watch. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Prouvaire bit his lip this time. “I’ll be fine then. Thank you.”

“I wish I could help.”

“I know.”

They turned to their food. A few minutes later, Feuilly looked up. “Mister Grantaire, could you tell us the time?”

Grantaire rubbed his eyes blearily and checked his watch. “Seven fifty-five.”

“Five minutes to the last bell of the morning watch.” Feuilly stood. “I’d better get my hat and get on deck.”

“Me too,” said Prouvaire, following him.

——

It was about an hour to noon and Feuilly was up in the rigging, Enjolras calling instructions to him about tightening a line. Feuilly balanced carefully (he was not as adept with heights as was Prouvaire) and was beginning on the knots when six bells struck and Prouvaire tumbled up the ladder, his hat askew and his coat wrongly buttoned. He slid to a halt to salute Enjolras.

And Enjolras looked worried.

“Prouvaire,” he said, “it has just gone six bells.”

“Yes sir,” Prouvaire said, dazed.

“Were you not to report every hour?”

“…yes sir,” Prouvaire said, beginning to look worried as well.

Enjolras looked him fairly, though sadly, in the eye. “Prouvaire, you did not report at four bells.”

Prouvaire’s eyes widened—in disbelief, then in realization. He breathed in shakily. “I’m sorry, sir. I know I failed my duty.”

Enjolras inclined his head as he thought of what response to make, but his thoughts were at once interrupted.

“Boy!”

It was the captain’s voice, and he was shouting to Feuilly.

“Sir?” Feuilly called back, turning from examining some fraying areas on another line. But as he turned, he pulled on the rope.

And it snapped.

Captain Colbert’s face went red at once, and he ordered Feuilly down to the deck. Feuilly climbed down as quickly as he could.

“The line was frayed, sir,” he called on the way; “it needed replacing—”

“Frayed or not, you broke it, midshipman!” Captain Colbert, despite the fact that though tall he was not a large man, towered over Feuilly as he came to attention. “Your carelessness has damaged this ship!”

Feuilly flinched visibly at the accusation, but kept his silence.

The captain glanced across the deck and sighted Courfeyrac laughing with Grantaire. “Mister Grantaire!” he called. “Find the bosun and his mate and tell them I require their presence. With the rattan, no mistake. Mister Courfeyrac, you’ll call the doctor to witness. –And you, Mister Feuilly,” he continued, as Courfeyrac and Grantaire hurried off, “get below.”

Feuilly’s lips parted, but he did as he was ordered.

And then Captain Colbert’s glance landed on Prouvaire. “Well,” he said. “I heard from Lieutenant Combeferre about your failure in attentiveness to your duty last night. Half our midshipmen disciplined in the course of a day, I see. Have you been better attentive in reporting each hour?”

They could not lie. Enjolras forced out the words. “In fact, sir,” he said, “I am obliged to inform you that Midshipman Prouvaire failed to report to me at four bells this watch.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed, coming to meet Enjolras’ cold and hard gaze. “And you are only now reporting this? –Mister Prouvaire, get below and join Mister Feuilly. I am sure you will both soon learn that carelessness and inattention are not worth the discipline which must follow.”

Prouvaire was pale with more than lack of sleep, but he looked the captain in the face. “Aye, aye sir,” he said bravely, and he went below.

Enjolras watched him go, then turned his attention back to Captain Colbert. “Will you require my presence, sir?” he asked.

“No,” said the captain. “You will remain on watch, lieutenant. Midshipman Grantaire and Acting Lieutenant Courfeyrac may witness the punishment.”

——

“Have you ever been caned before?” Prouvaire whispered to Feuilly. They were waiting by the ladder on the gun deck, trying to at least take comfort in the fact that they were facing this together.

“Loads of times by my uncle,” Feuilly whispered back, “but I don’t think that was anything like the navy. I mean, the rules say no more than twelve for one offense, and that can’t be in order to go lighter on us, can it?”

Prouvaire bit his lip very hard at that. “My parents and my tutor never hit me,” he said. “What—what if I cry?”

Feuilly sighed. “If we cry,” he said, “or yell or something, then that’s what happens. I’m sure it’s happened before. But we should just try to wait and cry, if we feel like we can’t help it, until it’s over. I think they let us go to the sickbay after. Dr. Joly wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Prouvaire nodded, squaring his shoulders and doing his best to look brave. They stood close together until Grantaire came back with the bosun and his mate.

“Courfeyrac’s coming with the doctor and the captain,” Grantaire said. He chuckled wryly. “Don’t look so glum, boys; you’ll make it. Everybody kisses the gunner’s daughter, and everybody lives. Why, I can’t count the canings I had before I turned nineteen and the rules kept them from doing it any longer.”

Prouvaire and Feuilly looked at one another, each silently wondering if they too would eventually lose count of these incidents.

“There’s no way to make it better,” Grantaire went on carelessly. “You know, they say things about breathing and whatnot, but it’s all rubbish. You just wait for it to be over, really.”

They looked at one another again, Prouvaire even paler than he had been before. But then there were footsteps, and Captain Colbert came in with Courfeyrac and Joly behind him.

——

Prouvaire, his heart thudding so hard that he could feel it to the tips of his fingers, followed over to the cannons. He found himself incapable of taking his eyes off the rattan cane the bosun carried, of ceasing to imagine how it would feel in a futile attempt to brace himself. He had already confessed to Feuilly that he had never been beaten; he would not reveal his inexperience with pain to everyone else who watched.

The question most haunting him—and one he could see in Feuilly’s darting eyes as well—was who would be ordered to go first. To go first was to have no warning of how bad it would be, but to go second was to allow the worry time to build. Either way, Prouvaire thought, watching would have to be nearly as bad as taking his own turn. He didn’t want to see Feuilly beaten any more than he’d wanted to see Bahorel flogged.

“Mister Feuilly!” said the captain, and Prouvaire touched Feuilly’s arm lightly in encouragement as he went forward, shoulders back, to bend over the end of the gun.

They cleared space for the bosun, and the rattan was raised, and the noise as it came down as it was awful. Feuilly’s body jerked forward and he held more tightly to the barrel of the cannon.

“One.”

And again. This time, a shuddering breath along with the wince.

“Two.”

Prouvaire wished he could look away, but the blend of his deep-seated concern for Feuilly and his need to know as much as he could drew him to stare, barely breathing.

At the next stroke, a groan through pressed-shut lips.

“Three.”

And up, and down, and four, and five, and Feuilly was clinging to the cannon and Prouvaire was struggling to stand impassively at attention as he ought.

At the impact of the sixth, Feuilly gave a small but sharp cry, and the captain looked to Joly for the routine check.

“He is in condition to carry on?”

Joly sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Captain Colbert signaled to the bosun. “The full dozen, then.”

The bosun paced the last six more slowly, which seemed to hurt Feuilly more. Courfeyrac stepped a little closer to Prouvaire, who finally managed to close his eyes for the last two, but he _heard_ , and that was more than enough. Feuilly’s every breath was a gasp as he, very carefully, stood up and took small steps over to Courfeyrac, who did not dare put an arm around his shoulders.

And Prouvaire stood rigid, eyes pressed shut again, because Feuilly looked awful, and he did not know how he was to face this, but he must.

“Mister Prouvaire!” called the captain.


	4. Chapter 4

This is the worst it could possibly be, some very young part of Prouvaire’s mind was insisting as he clung to the cold metal, waiting. This is the worst—

The very young part of him also threatened tears, before it had even begun. But he had half-promised Feuilly that he would try to wait, try to get through to the end, when the sickbay would be waiting and Dr. Joly would—he hoped—be kind.

If only he could make it through until then, he thought. If only he could last. Then it couldn’t be the worst, because there was something to hope for.

There was a line of Shakespeare that hovered vaguely in his thoughts at that, but as he cast about in his mind for it the cane came down for the first time and he bit his tongue fiercely, trying to make it hurt enough to distract himself, trying to drag thoughts from the incoherence that surged up and sought to drown him. Even the voice that was counting the strokes was fuzzy and distant.

It went—not the worst—something—as long as—

He heard the swish this time and clamped down on his tongue an instant before the rattan landed, swallowing back a whimper. Oh, what was the quote?

Somebody was saying “two,” and he was already hiding his face against the cannon in dread. Ten to go; this was the worst after all; he couldn’t—

And just as he shrank under the impact of the third he thought of it.

_The worst is not_   
_So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’_

He took in a deep unsteady breath, and braced himself with the words, with his sweating hands.

_The worst—is not—_

“Four.”

_So long as we can say_

“Five.”

_‘This is the worst.’_

“Six.”

As the bosun paused and the captain asked Dr. Joly about Prouvaire’s condition, he clung to the words, because there was a strange dark hope in them, an admission that things could be harder later but, at the same time, a reason to be able to endure just now, although he shook with the pain and sweated and shivered and still fought tears.

He let out a sigh, and then came the seventh. The words quickened in his head, spinning and flashing before his squeezed-shut eyes. The worst is not as long as we can say this is the worst; the worst is not as long as—as long—the worst is not—oh God, but it hurt, and even if it was not the worst it was _bad_ and he was not sure he could make it with his stomach clenching and blood pounding in his head and his mouth so, so dry, but the pain above it all—

“Ten.”

Holding himself in position was harder than ever, but just two more, he told himself, just two, and then it will be done. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?

But he cried out as the cane fell—weakly only because he did not have the breath to be louder—and had to bite his tongue again on a _please._

“Eleven.”

One last, the force and shock of it coursing through him, and then the bosun’s mate was taking him by the shoulders and helping him get his footing. The gun deck was swaying more than it ought, and he was not quite sure what the captain was saying, although admittedly he was not trying too hard to bring the reprimand into focus.

“Permission to look them over in sickbay, sir?” Dr. Joly was asking, when the captain finished.

Captain Colbert considered. “I suppose Mister Feuilly may be briefly excused from his watch. Permission granted, but they are both on duty for the afternoon watch; make sure they report.”

“Of course,” Dr. Joly said.

The captain dismissed them and Prouvaire and Feuilly, side by side, followed the doctor off to the sickbay.

——

Courfeyrac appeared just as Joly had finished examining the boys to determine the extent of the damage. “You’ll mend,” he was saying; “the pain is bad, I know, but none of the strokes overlapped so you haven’t got broken skin. The welts will fade into bruising before too long—but come, I’m sure you don’t care to hear about that. Why don’t you go lie down.”

“Yes sir,” Feuilly said gratefully, in a very small voice.

“And you might as well get out of your coats and things, so you’re more comfortable,” put in Courfeyrac from the doorway. As they did so, laying the uniform jackets aside on a chair (Prouvaire put his shoes beneath the chair as well), Courfeyrac reached into his coat pocket for a flask. “Here,” he said. “I’ve got some proper brandy here—something the captain gave the lieutenants. Take a nip, each of you, and that’ll get the edge off the pain, hmm?”

“Go on, lads,” Joly urged them. “I’d give you a bit of laudanum but you can’t go on watch with that in you. This’ll help.”

“Thank you, sir,” they said, one echoing the other, and each took a careful sip. Prouvaire spluttered on his as if it were medication, but got it down. Courfeyrac clapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Strong stuff, isn’t it? Now lie down, lads.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

When they were carefully positioned on their stomachs in the sickbay hammocks, Joly began to tidy up some supplies, and Courfeyrac followed him.

“Will they really manage being on watch so soon?” he asked in an undertone.

“Others have,” said Joly, his hands moving briskly. “The strokes might have been a little on the hard side of average, but if it has to be endured…”

“Prouvaire has hardly slept,” Courfeyrac interrupted. “Feuilly is the thinnest boy of his age I’ve ever laid eyes on. Doctor, have you really properly looked at them? They’re not well off.”

“They’ve been _beaten_ ,” Joly said, a hint of anger in his voice. “They’re not meant to be well off. But I said they’ll mend, and they’ll mend.”

“Going on watch won’t help them mend.” He seized an unwinding bandage and fiercely rolled it up again.

“Oh, and doctor’s orders pull more weight than captain’s orders, do they.” Joly seized the bandage back. “You don’t need to be reminding me, sir, that it’s my duty to keep this crew well and whole, but there are impediments—”

“Such as a certain highly esteemed leader of ours?” came a voice from the doorway. Lesgle the carpenter was leaning casually against the doorframe, clutching his left forearm. “My good doctor, you insisted I report to you if I had another sliver similar in severity to the last. I present you with the gift I have just received from a plank.”

Joly waved him over. “Will you never learn to look after yourself?” he demanded. “And keep your voice down; the boys are trying to rest.”

“What boys?” Lesgle asked, more quietly. He glanced over at the hammocks and sighted Prouvaire and Feuilly. “Don’t tell me—”

“Yes,” said Joly. He laid Lesgle’s forearm on the table and bent over it.

“What for?” Lesgle asked, eyebrows raised. “Surely our venerable captain had only the best of motives.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Feuilly happened to be touching a frayed line when it broke. Prouvaire had been ordered to report every hour, over a small fault, and he slept through a bell. They got twelve strokes each.”

There was a silence. Joly went for the tweezers.

“Well,” said Lesgle, screwing up his face as Joly applied the tweezers, “…now that’s a bad bit of business. –Joly, my dear fellow, must you pain me so?”

“Hold still,” Joly fussed, swatting at him. “I’m losing my grip.”

Courfeyrac paced in front of the supplies cupboard. “Prouvaire ought not to have had the first punishment to begin with. Combeferre gave it to him only in hopes of preventing the captain from doing worse. When he hears, he will feel at fault in this…he knows a boy of twelve ought not to be deprived of sleep, especially one like Prouvaire who sleeps so poorly anyway, but what could he have done? Prouvaire manages to enjoy being sent to the masthead, and before long the captain will learn that, and…”

He stopped, leaning on the table with his hands curled into fists. “By God, he shouldn’t have been beaten. Neither of them should have. Twelve and thirteen, and both of them good intelligent boys with the motivation to do better yet at a mere word of correction. Not like me—I know I earned a caning or two for doing handstands on the yardarm and playing at other stupid stunts. But they’re top-notch and they give it their best and they’ve got spirits that oughtn’t to be crushed, damn it!”

Joly and Lesgle both nodded sympathetically. The sliver was out by now, and Joly diligently washed the site of the injury as Lesgle mused, “Ah, the captain, Lord love him…old Captain Bellamy was never like this with the boys; shame he and the _Scarlet_ were both older than rope that needs making into oakum. The old is comfortable, like old coats and old friends, and sometimes the new is downright dangerous. Ever seen an old sail that’s been patched with new cloth? Whole thing gets ripped apart.”

“Since when are you the sailmaker on this ship?” Joly asked, wrapping up his arm and tying off the bandage with a sturdy knot.

“Since never,” Lesgle grinned. “But I know a thing or two.”

“So do I,” put in Courfeyrac darkly. “And one of the things I know, gentlemen, is that these lads have endured an injustice.”


End file.
